


The Dawn of the Dragonborn

by RedheadedDragon



Series: Meliandra [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Love Triangles, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23271277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedheadedDragon/pseuds/RedheadedDragon
Series: Meliandra [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/931725
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	1. Reunions

Arngeir folded his hands before him and addressed the group. “Once the Dragonborn takes their seat, we shall begin.” He motioned towards the chairs before them, indicating that they should take their seats. 

Balgruuf sat at the end of the table by the Thalmor Ambassador, kept looking toward the entrance, anxious for this moment. Next to him sat the stern looking Imperial general, Tullius and next to him sat his wife, the very pregnant Jarl Elisif, cradling her swollen womb and avoiding looking across the table. Legate Rikke sat protectively next to the jarl, glancing every so often toward her one-time companion, Galmar Stone-Fist. 

But it was those on the other side of the table that gave Meliandra more pause as she entered the room, feeling all their eyes upon her. The anonymity she had held onto so strongly was about to be a thing of the past once she removed the helmet that hid her face from others. She saw the knowing nod from Arngeir, silently giving her the strength and encouragement that she needed. Delphine watched her sternly, more sternly than she ever had. She could hear her voice in her head telling her not to fuck things up. 

Ulfric seemed to be sizing her up, an unknowing and unsure look upon his countenance. Flashes of memories exploded in front of her, her body entwined with Ulfric’s his hands stroking her hair, her body, her. She could hear him as he made love to her, telling her he would make her his queen. And soon Galmar’s look of respect would become one of disdain. She began to sit down. 

“I hope that we have all come here in the spirit of…” 

Arngeir was interrupted by Ulfric, his voice argumentative. “No.” He pointed to Elenwen. “You insult us by bringing her to this negotiation? Your chief Talos-hunter?” 

“That didn’t take long,” snorted Rikke, who then ignored the withering look from the jarl. 

“Ulfric,” Elenwen said in a sickly-sweet tone, “why so hostile? After all, it’s not the Thalmor that’s burning your farms and killing your sons.” 

There was a sharp intake of breath from Rikke. “She’s supposed to be on our side?” 

Ulfric’s temper flared. “You know exactly…” He paused then recollected himself. “…no. Not this time.” 

Clucking her tongue, Elenwen stated in a clipped tone, “I have every right to be at this negotiation. I need to ensure that nothing is agreed to here that violates the terms of the White-Gold Concordat.” 

It was Tullius’s turn to speak up. “She’s part of the Imperial delegation. You can’t decide who I bring to this council.” 

Arngeir raised his hands, signaling for silence. “Please, if we have to negotiate the terms of the negotiation, we will never get anywhere.” He looked toward Meliandra and continued, “Perhaps this would be a good time to get the Dragonborn’s input on this matter.” 

Ulfric, now standing just steps away from her, looked directly at her, trying to see past the shielded face, and said, “By Ysmir’s beard, the nerve of those Imperial bastards, eh?” He leaned over and said in a lower voice, “To think that we would sit down with that…Thalmor bitch.” He straightened back up. “I say she walks, or we walk.” 

She took a deep breath before answering. “You’re right. The Thalmor have no business here.” 

Ulfric looked at her intently. “I’m glad we agree on this.” 

Elenwen haughtily stood up. “Very well, Ulfric. Enjoy your petty victory. The Thalmor will treat with whatever government rules Skyrim. We would not think of interfering in your civil war.” 

Galmar chuckled. “Ha! Skyrim will never bow to the Thalmor!” He eyed Rikke. “Unlike your Imperial friends here.” 

The Legate jumped to her feet. “You’re lucky I respect the Greybeards’ council, Galmar!” 

“Legate!” Tullius snapped. “We represent the Empire here.” 

She squared her shoulders. “Sorry, Sir. It won’t happen again.” She sat back down. 

Arngeir looked around an eyebrow raised. “Now that that’s settled, may we proceed?” 

Galmar sat down, Ulfric hesitating, said, “I have something to say first.” 

As Rikke sighed and muttered, “Here we go –“ Meliandra removed her helmet, revealing herself to those around her. She heard the sharp intake of breath from Galmar while Ulfric’s eyes narrowed, the anger  
visibly rising as he quickly rounded the chair between them and reached for her. 

“WHERE IS MY CHILD?!”


	2. Hide and Seek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stand down!” Brynjolf hollered to the Guild, his hands raised palms up as he approached Ralof. “Sheath your weapons! Now!”   
> Ralof locked eyes with the redhead and, signaling his own men to stand down, made his way over to the ramp of the Flagon where Meliandra’s former lover stood, an invisible line drawn on the ground between them.   
> “What is the meaning of this?” Brynjolf demanded once Ralof stood before him, the two men facing each other, eyeing each other suspiciously.   
> “We’re here to see the Guild Master,” Ralof answered snidely, looking past him to the group standing behind him, searching each face for Meliandra’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events in this story take place just weeks after the end of "The Dark of Night"

She wrapped the fur cloak tightly around her, wishing for nothing more but a hot mug of cider and a bowl of stew next to a roaring fire in a hearth. She could see the towering walls of the ancient temple in the distance and knew she’d make it within its doors before the storm she saw approaching hit. She was tired, the physical exhaustion of the trek up the 7000 Steps was more than she had expected, this pregnancy seemingly sapping her energy as quickly as she gathered it. She had pushed herself to put as much distance between her and Windhelm as quickly as possible, knowing that once Ulfric learned of her running away, he’d seek her out. And she had no doubt that Ralof had realized that she was pregnant and would have undoubtedly informed Ulfric of this immediately. Knowing his anger over learning that his former lover Mila had killed their unborn child, she was also aware that the jarl would search Tamriel over for her and his child. Her only hope was that he would not consider High Hrothgar as her asylum. 

It was a snap decision to run from Ulfric, one she had not given thought to, let alone thinking it through completely, but once she had stopped running and had caught her thoughts along with her breath, she knew that she truly only had one option open for and that was to do what Balgruuf had pushed for her to do all those years ago and go to High Hrothgar. 

Making her way to the last of the steps, she prepared herself for the unknown. Would they expect her to train with them for the rest of her life as they had expected from Ulfric? Would she somehow learn how to save the people of the world from these dragon attacks from the monks here? Would they deem her unworthy and send her away? With a sigh of trepidation, she opened the looming door and walked in. 

# 

A large contingent of Stormcloaks made their way through the gates of Riften; Jarl Laila ordered her city guards to not stand in their way. The men searched shops and homes while Ralof led a group down into the Ratway. His men, coming across the Guild’s lookouts, slammed the men against the walls and began to physically interrogate them, demanding the whereabouts of Meliandra and the Thieves Guild hideout. They roughly made their way through the underground passages, violently questioning any person they came across. 

Ralof charged through the door to the Ragged Flagon, the men behind him rushing past him taking the thieves by surprise. Ulfric had been explicit in his orders: freely employ brutalizing attacks, using torture as a means to extract information and kill only as a last resort. He wanted to send a message for all to hear, he wanted this woman found and would go to any lengths to find her. 

“Stand down!” Brynjolf hollered to the Guild, his hands raised palms up as he approached Ralof. “Sheath your weapons! Now!” 

Ralof locked eyes with the redhead and, signaling his own men to stand down, made his way over to the ramp of the Flagon where Meliandra’s former lover stood, an invisible line drawn on the ground between them. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Brynjolf demanded once Ralof stood before him, the two men facing each other, eyeing each other suspiciously. 

“We’re here to see the Guild Master,” Ralof answered snidely, looking past him to the group standing behind him, searching each face for Meliandra’s. 

Brynjolf’s face flickered for just a moment and in that space of an eyeblink, his fear flashed in his eyes and then a stoic look came over him, his voice flat and measured. “She hasn’t been seen by any of us since the Winter Festival.” 

“You expect me to believe that?” Ralof demanded. 

“Whether you believe it or not, that is the answer I have for you.” He motioned behind him and continued. “You’re welcome to search the Flagon and I’ll escort you into the Cistern, I’ll even allow you to see the inside of the vault, but I assure you, Meliandra is not here.” 

“We will search every inch of this place and turn it upside down; I planned on doing that even without your permission. And I know I will not find her here, she’s not that stupid.” 

“Then why are you here?” he demanded. 

“To send her a message. Ulfric has not forgotten her past, and that includes her past lovers. If she thinks she’s going to find a safe haven anywhere, Ulfric will have someone there. He will find her and when he does, she will pray for a quick and painless death.” 

# 

Jarl Skald argued with Brina Merilis as Galmar Stone-Fist led a contingent into town. The former Imperial officer was beyond angry as she watched Stormcloaks enter the town, searching for someone, her voice raised but controlled. “Your job is to protect your people,” she argued. 

“That’s what I’m doing, woman!” 

“You call Soldiers invading people’s homes and businesses protecting them? All to look for some woman?” 

“Come now, Brina. Don’t you want the person responsible for the Emperor’s assassination caught? For them to face justice for the murder?” 

“So the assassin he paid for has outlived her usefulness and now he’s throwing her to the wolves?” 

Skald scowled at her. “I don’t know what Imperial lies you’ve been told, but the Stormcloaks had nothing to do with the assassination of Titus Mede.” 

“You expect me to believe that pile of horseshit?” 

His eyes narrowed. “I believe it more than the hogwash the Empire would have us believe. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He turned on his heel and walked back into the longhouse. 

Stenvar was leaving the general store after picking up supplies for the Sanctuary when he felt the strong grip on his shoulder and pulled him around, slamming him against the wall behind him. Closing his eyes briefly, he grit his teeth then turned his gaze before him. 

The man he saw before him growled. “I recognize you.” 

“You must be mistaken,” Stenvar answered without hesitation and met the man’s eyes. 

“Bullshit, I’ve hauled your scrawny drunk ass to the Windhelm jails plenty of times,” Galmar snarled. “And I know you’ve had dealings with the Breton, Meliandra Valeria.” 

“Who?” Stenvar asked, bewilderment on his face. “Man, I don’t know any wench by that name.” 

Galmar backhanded him, blood-tinged his lips. “I can do this all day, boy. Why don’t you make this easier for yourself and tell me what I want to know?” 

“Nothings ever easy with you Stormcloaks.” 

This time Stenvar felt his tooth break. “By the Nine!” 

“I know you worked alongside her. I know you know where she is and I bet she’s in the hideout the Brotherhood moved into.” 

Stenvar spat blood on the ground and glared at the man. “She ain’t here.” 

Galmar smiled. “See?” he asked nicely. “Wasn’t that hard after all, now, was it?” His voice turned gruff. “Where the fuck is she?!”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her for months.” 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“Fuck what you believe. I ain’t seen her since her last job when she decided to go hideout in Windhelm with your jarl.” 

“When’s the last time you got a message from her?” 

He laughed. “When she got to Windhelm to shack up with Ulfric.” 

Again, Galmar struck him. “What’d she say?” 

“That she made it there, that she was safe. That’s all I know.” He spit out more blood. “What’d she do?” 

“I think you know what she’s done.” Galmar patted him on the shoulder. “Why don’t you do me a favor then? Why don’t you have her little friends with that group of assassins get her a message for me, would you?” 

Stenvar only stared at him. 

“You let her know that Ulfric hasn’t forgotten anything and that means her past…alliances, as well. Anywhere she thinks is a safe haven, she’s going to discover that she’s wrong. She will slip up and make a mistake somewhere along the way. When she does, Ulfric will find her and when he does, he’s going to have his way with her and I promise you, she will not find it pleasurable in the slightest, but he will.” 

#

Vorstag stood next to his wife, seated with their young daughter in her arms. By their front door stood two soldiers, Stormcloaks out of their armor, while Vignar Grey-Mane sat by the hearth, opposite Lydia. The grandfatherly look he tried to portray to the couple and more so the child was easily seen through and while the timber of his voice remained calm and genteel, his words and their weight were threatening, demanding. 

“Where is the Thane of Whiterun?” he asked. 

“Dead,” answered Lydia. 

“Don’t lie to me, girl. We both know that’s not the truth.” 

“It is,” Vorstag said, going over to a lockbox on the mantle and unlocking it, produced two pieces of paper. “We received a letter with Jarl Ulfric’s seal stating that she had died, caught in the middle of a skirmish between Stormcloaks and the Legion.” He handed the letter to Gray-Mane for the elder man to read. “This is a document granting my wife this home in case of Ms. Valeria’s death or disappearance.” 

“Seems awfully convenient that you have these so readily available.” 

“My mother raised me to always be prepared,” Vorstag quickly retorted. 

“Hmph.” Vignar handed the documents back to the one-time mercenary. “Smart woman. One problem, though. Actually, two.” He pointed at the letter from Ulfric. “For one, that’s no longer his seal. After his signet ring came up stolen, he commissioned a new seal, said this just gave him a reason to have his High King seal designed.” The nobleman folded his hands before him. “The second problem is that up until recently, Ms. Valeria was staying at the Palace of the Kings and all of Windhelm can attest to the very alive-ness of the woman they all saw at the Winter Festival.” 

“It is not our fault if we received a forged letter,” Lydia snapped. “The truth is neither one of us has had much contact with her in the past few years. Ever since some shit happened in Riften, she just kind of changed.” 

“What happened in Riften??” 

“Not sure,” Vorstag answered quickly. “She never really spoke about it.” 

“Hmph. I find that hard to believe.” 

“You’ll just have to ask her, won’t you?”

“Ulfric is going to locate her. And when he does, he is going to make her pay for her crimes.” He stood up to leave. “You let her know that.” 

# 

The older man hooded and cloaked seemed to glide across the ancient stone floor. His voice was warm and welcoming as he said, “So…a Dragonborn appears, at this moment n the turning of the age.” 

“You summoned me; I’ve come to answer it.” 

“It has been a long time since we called for you.” 

She hung her head low. “I have had a hard time believing that I could be some Nord hero of prophecy.” 

“Well then, let us see if you truly are Dragonborn. Let us taste of your voice.” 

“What?” she asked, incredulously. 

“Do not be afraid. Your Shout will not harm us.” 

Looking beyond him, she saw three more older men approaching. Closing her eyes, briefly, she took a deep breath and let the Shout come forth. 

The man nodded, spreading his hands wide in front of himself. “Dragonborn, it is you. Welcome to High Hrothgar. I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards. Tell me, Dragonborn, why have you finally   
decided to come here?” 

“I wanted… No, I needed to find out what it means to be Dragonborn.” 

He drew her into his space, an embrace without contact, and began to walk toward a bench. “We are here to guide you in that pursuit, just as the Greybeards have sought to guide those of the Dragon Blood   
that came before you.”

“Like Ulfric Stormcloak,” she said, cradling her stomach. 

Arngeir straightened slightly, his voice becoming partially strained. “It was believed, shortly, but he was to be a Greybeard. He is not of Dragon Blood.” He noted the posture she had taken. “You are with child?” 

She nodded. 

“It has been ages since a child has been born in these hallowed walls. Perhaps-“ 

“It is Ulfric’s child.” 

“And he does not know where you are, is this correct?” 

She nodded. “He mustn’t know, if he doesn’t already.” 

“We will begin your training. We will cross this bridge” he motioned to her womb, “when the time comes.” 

#

Ulfric threw the tankard into the fire, the fury that had been building up all day finally erupting. He had burned nearly everything of hers that she had left the first day. The second day he demanded a new bed be made for him as traces of her had haunted him through the night; her scent, it had permeated his chambers and he demanded the servants clean them until there was no trace of the woman that would torment him with continuous reminders showing up. 

Every day that had passed since Meliandra had run from Ulfric’s men and he had discovered who she was, it was a thorn in his side and every day that passed without finding her drove that thorn deeper, festering until it poisoned his thoughts. 

And finding out she carried his child… He threw the empty bottle into the fire, shattering it. 

As if the Legion knew the chaos that had settled upon the Palace of the Kings, their attacks on his troops and the holds supportive of him be3came more and more frewquen t and his losses were starting to become noticeable. He swore vengeance upon Legate Rikke, despite it being her that told him the truths about this woman he had loved, that he thought he had loved, her information was really a planned attack by the Legion to undermine him, and initially, it had. But he refused to let them have the upper hand. 

He had men searching all of Skyrim for her; she would not get away. And with orders to bring her back alive, she would be forced to answer for her actions; if she was cooperative, he would let her see their child before he had her executed, for regardless of her being the mother of his child, he would have her head on a pike outside the city gates for all to see. And then, then he would lay waste to the Empire.


	3. A Child Is Born

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did he have a son? A daughter? How much of her would his child have? He would have to ensure that his child would grow up as a true and proper Nord, bring them up with no knowledge of their mother’s Breton blood. He would erase every memory of this woman who misled him so.  
> He only prayed that his child would not have her amber eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Events in this chapter take place six months after events in the previous chapter.

Pain ripped through her on a level she had never experienced before. Beads of sweat appeared on her brow as she concentrated on her breathing, wanting to scream but biting it back. Arngeir wiped her brow after offering her a drink of the honeyed water she had prepared with an added tonic to ease the labor pains. Her pains had begun early in the morning, growing stronger as the day had worn on until the sun began its descent and the moons shone brightly on the cloudless night, but she was unaware of it, she was unaware of everything but the increasing need to get this child out of her. 

She cursed the day she had laid eyes on Ulfric. She cursed the day she let him kiss her. She cursed the day her will broke and she finally gave in to his attentions and made his bed hers. She wished for the jaws of death to open and swallow him down to the depths of the Void forever. 

She cried out, the pain tearing through her abdomen again, this time it felt as if the babe were ripping the very threads of her womb; Ulfric’s rage lived within her child.  
Master Einarth spoke to Arngeir; she understood a few of the words he uttered. Arngeir looked at her and began to wipe the beads of seat from her brow once more, than offered her more of her honeyed water saying. “It is time, Dragonborn. The child within you may safely pass through to be born.” 

With an agonizing scream, she bore down and pushed. 

# 

Elisif was humming to herself as she collected flowers from the palace gardens. The birds were chirping around her, making her smile. The smells of summer were all around her and summer was beginning to look better for her then the previous seasons. 

Falk approached the jarl, glancing around to ensure they were alone before leaning into a kiss. “Ellie, it’s good to see you feeling better.” 

Her smile touched her eyes. “I am feeling worlds better, Falk. Though, I sill have a slightly sensitive stomach, but that is to be expected.” 

“To be expected?” He looked confused. 

“I’m pregnant,” she said happily.

“Pregnant? Are you sure?” he asked. 

As they began to walk down the garden path, Elisif answered, “I’m pretty sure I am. My blood moon has not come and many of the signs are there.” 

He smiled along with her, happy for her happiness but an uneasiness settled around him. He listened to her talk, her excitement bubbling over and he wanted to be as excited as she was, yet he had to know… 

“Ellie,” he interrupted. “Who’s the father?” 

She giggled coyly. “Do you really have to ask? Tullius tried for so long and nothing. You, though, you succeeded where he failed.” 

“This is…my child?” he asked, nervously. 

Gleefully, she nodded. 

“And you’re sure, absolutely sure that it is mine?” 

She nodded. “Tullius has barely touched me in months. It is surely yours.” 

They walked in silence for a time. “Does Tullius know yet?” 

She shook her head. “No, not yet.” 

“He must believe without a doubt that this is his child.” 

She stopped, staring at him. “You would deny your child?”

“To you, never. Publicly, I must.” He tilted her head to him. “Ellie, you know I must. You’ve always known.” 

She turned her head away, hot tears forcing their way past her eyelids to stream down her face. “But I don’t give a damn! Tullius doesn’t love me. He wants nothing more than his name to be remembered.  
And I’m the one who will be High Queen, he’s nothing more than a military puppet. Why should it matter who fathered my child?”

“Because there is more to this than you realize!” he snapped. 

“What?” she asked, shocked. “What do you mean?” 

He shook his head. “Oh, my love.” He drew her into a n embrace. Kissing the top of her head, he said, “Don’t worry about it; I’ll take care of it. Just, please, for all our sakes, for our child’s sake, let Tullius  
believe this is his seed growing within you. Let him claim the child as his. We will always know the truth.” 

#

Meliandra cried out, the pangs of labor growing stronger still as Ulfric’s child refused to crown, Meliandra’s small frame becoming problematic to its birth. She measured her breathing once more and focused on a point on the wall across from her. She knew that another pain would soon grab ahold of her and that she must bear down and push. She gathered her strength, preparing to birth her child, for she knew that it was time. 

With a shout, she bore down… 

# 

“You had her! Multiple times!” Rumair shouted. “How did you continuously let her slip through your fingers?” 

“The description you provided of Ayrena does not match Meliandra Valeria’s.” 

“So, she has had her appearance changed. But her eyes!” He slammed his fist on Elenwen’s desk. “Her eyes have not changed!” 

Elenwen looked away briefly. “No, you are right, her eyes have not changed.” 

“And time and time again, in all these reports that have piled up, the woman described is always a Breton, diminutive in size, raven colored in hair, eyes amber in color speckled with green. The whore that ran through Imperial camps slaughtering officers, described as a small Breton with unusual eyes. The assassination of Titus Mede, clues pointed to the Breton woman with amber eyes aligned with the Dark Brotherhood. The lover of the rebel jarl, Ulfric Stormcloak, positively identified as the missing soldier from the Legion named Meliandra Valeria has no known past, but she suddenly appears where Ayrena’s trails off. Are you that inept to not see these connections?” 

“We were investigating-“ 

“What more did you need to investigate?!” 

The ambassador sat silent.

Rumair began to leave the office, his anger having risen to dangerously high levels. “You have botched this entire Skyrim affair from the very beginning, yet I think this time, this time you may have signed  
your own exit papers, Madam Ambassador. Find Ayrena. Perhaps that will be your redeeming grace.” 

#

She felt as her child’s head began to make its passage from within to the world outside her womb. She cried out in agony feeling herself split as the head emerged. She quickly drew in more breath and bore down once more, her teeth fritting harshly against each other. She knew when the shoulders had passed, and then she took a moment to catch a few breaths before the next contraction came. She cursed Ulfric again, swore she was going to kill him when she saw him again. 

As the next set of contractions began, she gathered her strength and bore down once more, this time feeling her child completely leave her body before she collapsed back on the bed beneath her, waiting for the cry that was soon to follow… 

#

“It’s been six months!” he grumbled angrily to an empty room. “That bitch could have birthed my child by now.” Ulfric drained his tankard. “Damn whore.” He stood up, walked to his balcony, and looked over the river and beyond. Six months and they had not found his former lover. He had even sent people to Solstheim to see if she had sought shelter amongst the Skal but to no avail. She was nowhere to be found. He shouted aimlessly into the night, all his anguish and pain in a wordless scream that rolled across the land. 

He had loved her, truly he had. But he had been blind to what she really was and that infuriated him. He cursed himself for being weak, for giving into his desires carelessly. A fool, he knew that’s what he was, a giant fool to believe a Breton, a Breton! could be trustworthy. Galmar had been right, he had been thinking with his cock and not his brain when it came to her. 

Did he have a son? A daughter? How much of her would his child have? He would have to ensure that his child would grow up as a true and proper Nord, bring them up with no knowledge of their mother’s Breton blood. He would erase every memory of this woman who misled him so. 

He only prayed that his child would not have her amber eyes. 

# 

Meliandra watched as Arngeir wrapped her child loosely in a linen blanket. She ached but her mind was on one thing and one thing only, her child. She must protect this child at all costs, there was nothing more important to her. Her breath caught as the Greybeard placed her baby in her waiting arms, softly saying, “Your son, Dovahkiin.” 

A tear trickled down her cheek as she held him close to her, examining each and every detail about her son. She counted his fingers and toes though she did not understand exactly why she did but was satisfied at the count of ten each. He had his father’s ashy blond hair and a head full of it. Smiling, she kissed his forehead and his eyes opened to show he also shared his father’s blue-green eyes. She began to run her fingertips along the side of his face, thinking of the perfection she saw before her when suddenly her smile faltered, and a seed of fear began to grow.

Brushing the ashen locks aside, she realized that she could no longer run from the truth, the truth that now stared at her in the face as her fingers traced the outline of her son’s Elven tipped ears.


	4. Veil of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ulfric turned a cold gaze on her. “The lady does protest too much; my child must be here. Search it!” he repeated.  
> He stood there staring at her, holding her frozen with his glaring eyes. He watched as she tried looking past him and into the main room where the children were. He watched as she nervously swallowed, her anxiety visibly building. He watched as she wrung her hands together at the sound of his soldiers searching rooms. But at the sound of a baby’s cries, it was Ulfric’s head that turned, waiting for the child to be brought forth. Beside him, he heard the headmistress begin to softly cry.  
> “You should not have kept me from my child.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Events in this chapter start three months after previous chapter.

There was no light from either moon this night. The air was stagnant and stale, the heat of summer having set in on the fishing city of Riften, making its residents miserable in the mugginess that clung onto everything until the early morning hours. He guards did not see the figure moving stealthily in the shadows making its way to Honorhall Orphanage. Suddenly, with no reason, the sconces outside the orphanage lost their flames and the figure in the dark approached the door. With a practiced hand, the shadow amongst the shadows picked the lock and slipped into the building. Casting a simple muffle spell, Meliandra made her way to the room once occupied by Grelod the Kind, now the room of Constance Michel, the new headmistress. She remembered standing in this room, this this very spot, staring at the old woman who held a whip over the children left in her care. The murder she had committed had given the children a better life here, but it had also set her on a path that now in hindsight she wished she had never traveled. That road had been filled with death and deceit, betrayal and regret. And now, in a twist of irony, she found herself in need of help from this woman and would have to trust her explicitly, and trust was not something she had much left of. 

Cancelling the spell, the room soon filled with the sounds of Meliandra’s infant son crying, his hunger his all-consuming need and it was these cries that woke the sleeping headmistress. As the woman slowly climbed out of bed, her eyes never leaving the intruder before her, Meliandra sat down and began to open the tunic she wore, her breasts responding to the cries her son made. “I apologize for the intrusion,” she stated calmly, bringing the babe to her breast which he hungrily latched onto and began to suckle greedily, gulping his mother’s milk eagerly. “Shhh, shhh,” she said softly to the child “Not so fast, you’ll choke.” Casting a soothe spell upon him, he soon slowed his rushed feeding. 

Turning her attention back to the headmistress, she continued, “As I was saying, I’m sorry for the intrusion but I need your help and it is imperative that no one knows anything about it.” 

Constance Michel nodded. “I imagine if you’re coming her in the middle of the night, the darkest night of the month in fact, that this needs to be kept just between you and I.” She sat at the table across from Meliandra. “How can I be of assistance?” 

# 

She stepped into the bright glare of the sun as she climbed the steps out of the tomb, her irritation at discovering a note in place of the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller was slowly evolving into explosive anger as she cast a fireball at a passing rabbit, enveloping it into a ball of flames, the air stinking of singed fur. Giving a brief Shout, she flung the rabbit’s body into the frigid waters beyond. 

‘A friend,’ she thought to herself, angrily. Untying the horse that she had purchased off a farmer, she headed in the direction of Riverwood and to the Sleeping Giant Inn. Having stayed at the inn begore, she knew there was no attic room and prepared for a possible ambush. But from who? Had Balgruuf finally broken his silence on the identity of the Dragonborn, that the Dragonborn was Thane of Whiterun? 

She had no choice but to take the risk and go. 

Once more she began to think of her son whom she had named Vladimir, the name of one of Ulfric’s ancestors he held in great esteem; she had hoped this would help gain his favor despite the evidence in their son of Meliandra’s mixed heritage. Her breasts had started to not produce as much milk as they once had, having not nursed him for nearly a week. While she was grateful for the lessening pain that the milk brought when it came in, she found herself distracted and slightly depressed the longer he was not in her arms. 

‘Damn this ‘friend’,’ she thought angrily, only wanting to return to Riften and be reunited with Vladimir, no matter how briefly, she just needed to see him again, to kiss his chubby cheeks and listen to his cooing. The joy this child had brought her was more than she had thought or dreamed possible. He had become her life and his life was all that she could see, protecting him and the world around them suddenly becoming an all-consuming need. 

But every time she brought up the return of the dragons to Master Arngeir, he would change the subject and tell her that it was not for them to make speculations on things of that nature. She had begun to feel that they would not be the ones to help her learn why the dragons had returned and what role she played in this as the Dragonborn. 

Perhaps this ‘friend’ in Riverwood would be able to give her the answers that the Greybeards had not been willing to come forward with. Maybe her path was not this one of “The Way of The Voice”, but something else entirely. Or maybe it was a trap of some kind, but either way, the fact that she was headed into a town where she was already known by prominent townspeople on both sides of the war, had her anxiety higher than it ever had been before and all she wanted was to see her little boy again. 

# 

She walked through the doors of the Sleeping Giant Inn; her hooded cloak pulled close to her in an effort to hide herself. The inn was busy; she spotted Ralof’s sister Gerdur and her husband Hod having dinner and drinks at a table while their son danced with the blacksmith’s daughter as Sven, the bard, played a song on his lyre and sang along. She saw the innkeeper at the bar arguing with an assistant and made her way over there. 

“Orgnar.” 

The man ignored her. 

“Orgnar! Are you listening?” 

He continued wiping down the counter. “Hard not to, Delphine.” 

Scowling, she said, “The ale is going bad. We need to get a new batch.” After a moment of silence, she asked annoyedly. ‘Did you hear me?” 

“Yep. Ale’s going bad.” He continued cleaning the bar. 

“Hmph. I guess you don’t have potatoes in your ears after all.” She started to turn toward Meliandra. “Just make sure we get a fresh batch in soon.” 

“Mmhmmm.” 

She rolled her eyes then gave her full attention to the woman. “Well, we don’t get a lot of travelers here in Riverwood; the war keeps most folks away, these days.” She wiped her hands on a rag. “What can I do for you?” 

“I’d like to rent a room,” she answered, “an attic room would be preferable.” 

The woman’s eyebrow arched slightly, a small smirk appearing on her face as she looked Meliandra up and down, then beyond her toward the door. “Attic room, eh? Well…,” she turned her attention back to Meliandra again, “we don’t have an attic room, but you can have the one on the left. Make yourself at home.” 

Glancing first at the open door on the left, she nodded and headed over to the room, keeping the hood covering her face until she had closed the door behind her. She had barely set her knapsack on the bed and opened it when there was a knock on the door. Meliandra picked up her dagger, its familiar weight a reassurance as she went to the door and opened it slightly, looking out the opening to see the innkeeper. 

“You look like you could use an ale,” she held a bottle toward her. “On the house.” 

Meliandra took it, thanking her and began to shut the door. 

“Wanderer like you mut have quite the appetite. Interest you in some food?” 

Meliandra nodded. “Sure. Whatever you recommend.” Again, she began to shut the door. 

“So, what’s your story? Just here to …relax?” 

“What does it matter? Why are you asking?” 

The blonde woman shrugged. “I’m the innkeeper. It’s my business to keep track of strangers.” 

“Look, I’m just here to meet someone, and then I’m gone.” 

“The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, right? At Meliandra’s expression, the women continued, “We need to talk, Dragonborn.” 

Meliandra opened the door. 

“Not here. Follow me.” 

Meliandra followed her across the inn to another room, sparsely decorated with what appeared to be personal items. She closed the door to the room upon request then watched as the woman opened the wardrobe against the wall and pulled a small finger lever in the corner, just like the one at Riftweald Manor in Riften, the house once owned by Mercer Frey and now a safehouse for the Guild. The back of the empty wardrobe slid open to reveal steps going below the inn. “You’re no innkeeper,” Meliandra stated as she followed the woman. 

“Oh, I’m very much an innkeeper,” she replied as she made herself around the table in front of her, “but an innkeeper is not really what I am.” 

“You aren’t what I was expecting.” 

“Good. The whole point of being in hiding is to appear to be some you’re not.” 

“Why all the cloak and dagger, this innkeeper ruse?” 

“You can’t be too careful. Thalmor spies are everywhere.” 

“Well, you got me here. What’d you want with me? And where is the Horn?” 

She turned, walked to the chest, and unlocking it, opened it, reached in, removing an antiquated looking horn, and handed it to the woman. “there, now you have the Horn. I knew the Greybeards would send you for the horn if they thought you were the Dragonborn. Taking it was the only way I could be sure this wasn’t a Thalmor trap.” 

“What do you want with me?” Irritation edged her voice. 

“Like I said in my note, I’ve heard that you might be Dragonborn.” 

“So?”

“I’m part of a group that’s been looking for you…well, someone like you, for a very long time. If you really are Dragonborn, that is. Before I tell you any more, I need to make sure I can trust you.” 

“If you can trust me?!” she snapped. “You’re the one who lured me here; you speak of a Thalmor trap? This could have been a trap to ambush me. I don’t necessarily have the most illustrious of pasts. How  
do I know that I can trust you?” 

“If you don’t trust me, you were a fool to walk in here in the first place.” 

“Why’d you take the Horn?” 

“I knew the Greybeards would send you there if they thought you were Dragonborn. They’re nothing if predictable. When you showed up here, I knew you were the one the Greybeards sent, and not some  
Thalmor plant.” 

“Why are you so worried about the Thalmor?” Meliandra asked, watching the woman before her.

“We’re very old enemies. And if my suspicions are correct, they might have something to do with the dragons returning. But that isn’t important right now. What is important is that you might be Dragonborn.” 

Eyeing her suspiciously, Meliandra inquired, “Why are you looking for the Dragonborn?” 

Delphine paced the room. “We remember what most don’t – that the Dragonborn is the ultimate dragonslayer. You’re the only one that can kill a dragon permanently by devouring its soul.” She stopped and stared at her. “Can you do it? Can you devour a dragon’s soul?” 

“That’s none of your business,” Meliandra snapped, turning on her heel to leave. 

“You’re wrong. It is my business. You may be the only one that an stop these dragons. But you’ll understand that soon enough.” 

“I don’t have time for this,” she muttered as she walked out. 

# 

The gates opened with a creaking, not just one side, but both, and a group of Stormcloak soldiers filed into Riften, the distinguishable form of Ulfric Stormcloak at the front of the group leading the way through the city, his destination becoming clear as the group made its way past first the Temple of Mara, then past Mistveil Keep and then entering the doors of Honorhall Orphanage. 

Constance Michel stood in the hallway between the entrance and the housing section of the orphanage, attempting to block the soldiers from coming through. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. 

“You had a visitor recently,” Ulfric’s voice rumbled deeply through the room. 

“This is an orphanage; what of it?” 

He approached the woman, his eyes hard as they bore into hers. “I’d advise you not to play stupid with me, Ms. Michel. It wouldn’t be that hard for Jarl Laila to reserve a cell for you. What would happen then to the children?” 

She glared at him. “What do you want?” 

“The visitor you had recently, late at night, nearly two weeks past. Who was it?” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “Not sure what you’re talking about.” 

Suddenly she felt his hand upon her throat and her head hit the wall as he thrust her against the frame of the doorway. “Now is not the time to play games with me, headmistress. I can make things very difficult for you here and you wouldn’t want any kind of accident to happen, now would you?” 

She shook her head. 

“Now, my people here sent word that a certain woman I have been searching for was seen sneaking her way into Riften and into this establishment. I want to know who it was that came to see you that night.” 

“She did not give me her name.” 

“Have you seen her before?” 

She shook her head. “Not to my recollection.” 

He stared at her for a moment before releasing his hold on her. Looking to his men, he ordered, “Search it. Thoroughly.” 

“What?!” she cried out. “No!”

Ulfric turned a cold gaze on her. “The lady does protest too much; my child must be here. Search it!” he repeated. 

He stood there staring at her, holding her frozen with his glaring eyes. He watched as she tried looking past him and into the main room where the children were. He watched as she nervously swallowed,  
her anxiety visibly building. He watched as she wrung her hands together at the sound of his soldiers searching rooms. But at the sound of a baby’s cries, it was Ulfric’s head that turned, waiting for the child to be brought forth. Beside him, he heard the headmistress begin to softly cry. 

“You should not have kept me from my child.” 

Constance Michel gasped as a soldier came around the corner, a babe wrapped in a blanket in her arms, and a worried look on her face. “No,” she whispered. 

“Give me my child,” Ulfric demanded. 

The soldier took a deep breath and handed him the baby, saying, “This is the only infant in the orphanage, my Lord.” 

With his heart racing, he took the child and looked down, and soon his expression turned to anger as he saw the child clearly. “What trickery is this?” he hollered, staring into his eyes. “What games do you play with me?” he demanded as he took in the child’s ashen locks that mirrored his own, the locks that barely hid the tips of Elven ears. “This…this is not my child!” he shouted angrily, thrusting the babe back into the soldier’s arms and hurriedly storming out, promising death to his one-time lover. 

#

Brynjolf watched from the shadows as Ulfric stormed out of the orphanage, followed by the group of soldiers that had followed him in. Keeping a distance behind, he followed the group to the main gates of the city where they climbed onto horses and the back of carts. The thief quickly made his way through the center of town and to the orphanage, watching as one last Stormcloak exited the building. 

Slipping in through the door, he found the headmistress holding Vladimir close to her chest, tears flowing down her cheeks. She looked up at him as he approached. 

“Do you believe me now, lass?” 

She nodded. “He denied him.” 

“Of course, he did.” Brynjolf responded. “Ulfric Stormcloak is not going to claim any Elven child as his own.” He sat down next to the woman. “We’re lucky he denied Vladimir as his own, that saved him this time. But what will happen if Ulfric changes his mind and uses him as a tool in getting Meliandra to go to him?” 

“I promised her I’d watch over him no matter what!” 

“And you will be.” 

“How?” she demanded. 

“By letting me take him. Let me take him to the Nightingales. We will protect him for you, for Meliandra. No one will find him where we put him.” 

For a moment the room was quiet save for the soft sounds of Constance’s tears. With a kiss upon the baby’s forehead, she nodded her consent. “Yes, take him. But promise me that you’ll watch over him with your life, that you won’t let anything happen to him.” 

Brynjolf nodded. “I promise. To you and to Meliandra.” 

She handed Vladimir over to the thief then watched as he stood, seemingly melding into the shadows and disappeared out the door and into the night.


	5. What Happens In The Dark...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knocking first on the door before opening it slightly, he called out the number two’s name, hoping he was not waking the man. A grumbled, “What?” greeted him, so he pushed the door open and walked in.  
> “Hey, Bryn, I hate to bother you, but, huh, something’s come up.”  
> “Can it wait ‘til morning?” His voice sounded sleepy. “That child- “  
> “Meliandra’s back in Riften,” he interrupted.  
> Brynjolf was suddenly wide awake, the name of his former lover chasing the sleep from his brain. Rolling out of bed, he stood up looking at the long-time bouncer for the Guild. “Where?”

It was late at night when Meliandra walked into Riverwood, her thoughts on her last conversation with Delphine back in Kynesgrove. Meliandra had agreed to hear more of what the innkeeper had to say, returning to the inn after realizing that the Greybeards would not be the ones to answer her questions. 

“What makes you think the Thalmor are bringing the dragons back?” she had asked the older woman. 

She had shaken her head, and the Blades member replied, “Nothing solid. Yet.” After a brief pause, she had continued, “But my gut tells me it can’t be anybody else.” She then stopped and turned to the Dragonborn. “The war was basically over. Then a dragon attacks, Ulfric escapes, and the war is back on. And now the dragons are attacking everywhere, indiscriminately. Skyrim is weakened, the Empire is weakened.” Shrugging she had begun walking again. “Who else gains but the Thalmor?” 

Meliandra had hesitated uneasily as she did any time Delphine mentioned the Elven cabal of the Aldmeri Dominion, then swallowed and began to follow once more. “So, we need to find out what the Thalmor know about the dragons. Any ideas?” 

“If we could get into the Thalmor Embassy…it’s the center of their operations in Skyrim… Problem is, that place is locked up tighter than a miser’s purse.” A sarcastic chuckle had come from Delphine at that and she said, “They could teach me a few things about paranoia…” 

They had agreed to split up on their return to Riverwood, giving the Blades member time to decide their next moves, leaving Meliandra to give serious thought to her situation. She desperately wanted to get out of Skyrim now more than ever, but it had become evident that her fate, her destiny was tied to this land, binding her to it. 

Delphine was sitting by the fire when she walked into the inn, Meliandra had already come to the conclusion that she did not like the woman, least of all trust her completely, but at this point in time, she had no choice but to place some form of trust in the woman. Upon seeing the Breton enter the building, the older woman stood, saying, “Good, you’ve made it back. Follow me.” 

She followed Delphine into the woman’s room, shutting the door behind her, then down into Delphine’s secret room below the inn. 

“I’ve figured out how we’re going to get you into the Thalmor Embassy.” 

“Wait, what?” Meliandra demanded. “You want me to get into the Embassy?” She shook her head. “No, isn’t going to happen.” 

“Excuse me? If I were to go, I’d be the wrong kind of attention. It has to be you; they don’t know you. Yet.” 

“Your assumptions will bring failure to this before it even starts. I’ve already pissed off the Thalmor enough that they’re searching for me.” 

Delphine looked deflated. “Shit. That won’t do.” She glanced at her. “Why are they searching for you?” 

“I escaped one of their prisons with my mother. We were…favored pets of a high ranking official and he wants me back.” 

“Just you?” 

“My mother is dead.” 

“I’m sorry.” She began pacing the room. “There has to be a way…” 

“I’m going to get some stew,” Meliandra said with half a smile. 

Sometime later as Orgnar padded his way to his bed in the corner, Delphine emerged from her room and sat next to Meliandra at the counter. “It occurred to me that our solution is easier than we thought.” 

Sopping some broth up with a chunk of hard bread, Meliandra looked at her associate. “And what’s that?” 

“See a face sculptor.” 

She dropped the bread into her bowl and stared at her. “A face sculptor?” She laughed. “You want me to travel to Cyrodiil to see a face sculptor?” 

“No, I don’t, that will take too much time and gold we don’t have. I want you to go to Riften to see the face sculptor who has set up shop within the Ratway. Then, once you have altered your appearance, you will meet up with my contact, a Bosmer named Malborn, he’ll be waiting for you in Solitude at The Winking Skeever. He’ll fill you in on the rest there.” 

Anything else Delphine had had to say was lost as Meliandra’s head began to swirl, darkened memories from long ago of a woman, who with the help of herbs and hints of dark magic remolded people into a new version of themselves, long-forgotten pain coursed through her as her breath began to catch alongside the racing rhythm of her heart as the realization hit her that she was never truly free from her past. 

# 

Maul was sitting against the wall of Aerin’s house when he saw the shadowy figure slip in through the main gates. Clinging to the shadows, he watched as the dark figure made its way toward the marketplace and down the stairs. He smiled slightly to himself as he stood up and made his way to the graveyard. He found Dirge just beyond the entrance. 

“Your Guild Master has returned.” 

Dirge raised his eyebrow at his brother. “Are you sure?” 

He slapped his younger sibling on the back of his head. “Of course, I am sure, dumbass. That Breton is hard to miss, even if she is trying to hide herself behind hooded furs.” 

Dirge scowled at him. “I’ve got to let Brynjolf know.” 

“You go do that, little brother.” 

Dirge shook his head as he watched him leave, climbing up the steps that led to the false coffin above, then turned and headed to the quarters belonging to the Guild Master that her former lover occupied. Knocking first on the door before opening it slightly, he called out the number two’s name, hoping he was not waking the man. A grumbled, “What?” greeted him, so he pushed the door open and walked in. 

“Hey, Bryn, I hate to bother you, but, huh, something’s come up.” 

“Can it wait ‘til morning?” His voice sounded sleepy. “That child- “ 

“Meliandra’s back in Riften,” he interrupted. 

Brynjolf was suddenly wide awake, the name of his former lover chasing the sleep from his brain. Rolling out of bed, he stood up looking at the long-time bouncer for the Guild. “Where?” 

He shook his head. “Don’t know, just that she’s here.” 

Picking up a pitcher he poured water into a bowl then splashed his face with it. “Well, I best go find her before Ulfric’s spies do. Where’s Delvin?” 

“Last I saw, in the Flagon sweet-talking Vex.” 

Pulling a tunic over his head, he made his way to the storage room and through the door leading into the Ragged Flagon. He had not seen her since before her disappearance from Windhelm, and then he had discovered that she had born the Windhelm jarl a child, a son in fact. He knew from that point on, that she was in danger. 

As he scanned the room for Delvin, he saw her, and his heart stopped. She was even more beautiful than he remembered, her hair much longer than before, even as she had it pinned up atop her head; he immediately imagined the smell of the flowered waters she bathed in and groaned inwardly. Seeing that she was deep in discussion with Galathil, he hesitated…

# 

“You remember me?” 

The elf nodded. “An artist always recognizes her work, and you Ayrena were and remain my greatest masterpiece.” 

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “My name is Meliandra.” 

Galathil smiled. “Of course, Meliandra. Now, what can I do for you?” 

Her voice was low and shaky. “I need you to remake my face.” 

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I cannot.” 

“Why not?” 

“Child, when your mother brought you to me, she insisted that I change everything about you, that I make you unrecognizable.” 

“Yes, I know this. I need you to – “ 

“Ayr – Meliandra, what I did was so extensive, there’s nothing that I am able to do.”

“What do you mean?” 

“There’s nothing left for me to change, there’s not enough clay to reshape, to remold. You are a finished piece of art.” 

“By the Nine!” She stood up and began to pace. “Fucking great!” 

“Why do you need to change your appearance?” 

Sighing, she ran her hand through her hair, her raven locks spilling over her fingers. “I can’t go into detail. I just need to get past guards and people who know me.” 

“Mmhmm.” 

At her companion’s look, she asked, “What?” 

“There are ways that it can be done on a temporary basis.” 

“Explain,” she demanded as she sat back down.

“There are wizards and alchemists who use their craft for nefarious reasons. The Morag Tong has made use of a particular potion said to have been fist crafted by a gifted Dunmer assassin trained in the arts of deception and illusion.” 

“I don’t have the time or the gold to go to Morrowind.” In exasperation, she waved her hand dismissively. “By the Nine, things are just going from bad to worse.” 

Galathil picked up a bag by her and began searching the contents within until she found what she was looking for and pulled out a bottle, a bluish-green in color that held a thick liquid that looked vile in itself. Placing it on the table before her, she replied, “Lucky for you, I have my own supply line catering to the dark arts. Now, the question is, how badly do you want it?” 

Reaching inside her cloak, she pulled out a coin purse and, pouring some of the contents out, gold septims mixed in with jewels of various sorts, answered, “Name your price.” 

# 

He embraced the shadow that clung to the wall becoming one with it. He watched as Meliandra made her purchase from the face sculptor and gathered her things quickly, her gaze repeatedly going to the passageway to the bedrooms as well as the Cistern, anxiety written upon her face. He knew she was trying to get out of here before they saw each other, he knew that she would avoid him, the way she always did when she could not face him. He was not going to let that happen. 

Hitching her pack on her shoulder, she quickly made her way towards the pathway that would take her to the Ratway, her steps quiet as her enchanted boots muffled their sound. She drew the hood closer to her face as she rounded the corner, her eyes lowered to the ground as she thought herself free of what once was her home.

Brynjolf’s hand rested on her shoulder as she passed him, the shadows giving way to the light; she jumped at his sudden appearance. “Damn it, Bryn,” she swore as she took a step back, startled. “You gotta stop doing that to me.” 

“And give you the opportunity to slip away without even saying hello, let alone goodbye?” He chuckled dryly. “Come now, lass. I would not have made it this long in the Guild if I were sloppy.”

“Nocturnal’s blessing is an added bonus, though.” Her words were cynical though a laugh shone in her eyes. 

“What’s going on, lass?” 

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

He shook his head and his voice had an edge to it as he spoke. “The innocent act does not befit you, Meliandra. You’ve been out of everyone’s sights for damn near a year and now you show up here, cloaked in the night discussing god knows what with the face sculptor and rushing out of here before any of us wake for the day. What the fuck is going on?” 

“I can’t tell you.” 

“You can’t tell?” he half-shouted. “You’ve got Stormcloaks looking for you all across Skyrim with a king's ransom for a bounty, and you’re going to play deaf and blind with me about it.” He shook his head. “At least it appears Ulfric wants you alive.” 

“It does not involve the Guild.” 

“No?” he snapped. “So you think.” He glared down at her. “Then explain to me why Ulfric sent his men through Riften turning the town upside down looking for you. Explain to e why a contingent of his men found their way down here to leave a message specifically for you.” 

Her face blanched as her eyes went wide. “What was the message?” 

“That you can’t hide forever.” He paused. “You did this to yourself. You took his child from him; he’s not the type of man who will let a thing like that just happen and not do anything about it.” 

“You know?” 

“That you bore Ulfric a son?” Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a deep breath and said, “Yes. I do.” His voice turned hard. “And you should be glad that I do.” 

“And why is that?” 

“Because once Ulfric gets over the fact that he has an Elven child, he would return to Honorhall and remove Vladimir, by force this   
time.” 

“Return?” her voice cracked. “He’s been to the orphanage? He saw his son?” 

Nodding, he answered, “Your son’s Elven ears are most likely what made Ulfric deny the boy.” 

“I have to go. I have to get to my son.” 

“He’s not there.” 

She stared at him. “What do you mean he’s not there?” Her voice rose with fear. 

“Vladimir is safe.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I discovered his existence and had been trying to get Constance to allow me to take him away from here. I knew that once Ulfric learned of his whereabouts, he would come here to claim his child. I was there when he came to the orphanage. I heard him deny his son, but I saw the recognition in his eyes. I knew he’d be back eventually, so I convinced Constance this was the best thing for her to do if she were to keep her promise to you.” 

“I have to see Vladimir.” 

Brynjolf shook his head. “He’s not here. I moved him somewhere safe, far from Ulfric’s eyes. But he’s safe.” 

“Bring me to my son!” 

“I cannot.” 

“Why? Why do you keep me from him?” she cried out. 

“Because Ulfric has eyes everywhere looking you. All it would take is for one of his spies to catch sight of you and follow you to the safehouse I have Vladimir at. As long as you do not know where he is, he’s safe from harm.” 

Holding back the tears that were threatening to creep out beyond her eyelids, Meliandra nodded, seeing his logic, and accepting that he was right. “Why?” 

“Why what, lass?” 

“Why are you doing this? Why are you protecting Ulfric’s child?” 

He reached over and taking her chin in his hand, tilted her head up and gazed into her amber eyes. “Meli, I saw what losing our child did to you and I can’t help but feel like I failed to protect our baby. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do something to protect your child now, regardless of who sired him. I love you, Meli. I always will.” 

A smile touched her lips briefly. “Thank you,” she whispered before taking a deep breath and gathering herself together. 

He nodded. “Just answer me this one thing, lass.” 

“What’s that?” 

“His ears…?”

Suddenly her face went blank. “The man responsible for my birth was an Altmer. Not much more to say about it.” 

“Kinda short for being part Altmer.” 

Staring at him, she responded coldly. “My mother’s Breton genes were dominant when it came to my height, and even she was short compared to other Bretons.” 

“So, what happened with your ears?” 

“Is this really important, Brynjolf?” she snapped. “My mother tried everything she could to remove my Elven looks, to make me look more man than Mer. She was ashamed of my Mer blood, no matter how much she loved me, she could never get past the fact that she had an Elven child.” She took a deep breath. “This is why I had to run from Ulfric because he’s just the same as my mother, so filled with fear and loathing of the Mer that he will eventually resent Vladimir just as my mother did me until the day she died.”


	6. The Party Crasher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Meliandra’s vantage point, she saw him pick up a quill and dip it into the inkwell before him. “Let’s begin again.”
> 
> “No…for pity’s sake…I’ve told you everything.”
> 
> This time she heard the thud of a punch, her stomach clenched as she finally caught sight of the prisoner. She recognized him as one of the Guild, one of Brynjolf’s men she saw rarely.
> 
> “You know the rules.”
> 
> Her view was blocked again, though the sounds of his torture pounded in her ears. She looked around forming a plan as she listened to the thief begging for breath.

Meliandra had drunk the vile potion on the carriage ride to the Thalmor Embassy’ the thick, semi-curdled liquid smelled worse than it looked and tasted even worse than that. Her stomach immediately tried to reject its new contents, something Galathil had warned her about; she swallowed the vomit as soon as it came up. She had sat in silence so as not to alert the carriage driver of anything being amiss as she felt like her insides were being torn to shreds. With the creaking of the wagon wheels slowing to a halt, Meliandra took a deep breath preparing herself for what she expected would be the greatest, if not the most important, the performance of her life.

Carefully making her way off the back of the carriage, she said a quick prayer to the Divines that this plan of Delphine’s would actually work and that she’d be able to get in and get out without a problem. She walked toward the entrance to the embassy only to be stopped by a guard. “Welcome to the Thalmor Embassy. May I see your invitation, please?” 

Meliandra nodded as she fished the invitation out of her pocket, hoping Malborn had been successful with getting her name added to the list, and handed it to the Altmer guard. After looking it over, the Mer woman handed it back, stated everything was in order, and allowed the Breton to enter. Breathing a sigh of relief, Meliandra walked in. 

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of her image in the mirror and gasped softly. Turning to look, she admired the alteration the potion had created, an illusion projected upon others. She had thought she would see her true self, yet by some unknown twist, even her eyes beheld a different image of herself. Her hair, now a long, honeyed chestnut, was pleated fancifully down her back while a sprinkling of freckles rested upon her sun-kissed skin, and her eyes now only shone an emerald green with no trace of amber in them. She smiled. 

“Welcome,” she heard and turned to see whom the voice had come from. With a start, she recognized the Thalmor ambassador. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” the Altmer continued. “I am Elenwen, the Thalmor Ambassador to Skyrim.” 

“This is quite a party,” Meliandra said, avoiding looking at the woman, but rather beyond the ambassador. “Where can I get a drink?” 

An eyebrow rose. “Don’t worry, my parties are always well-stocked with the finest food and drink available in this country. But first, you were introducing yourself. Please, tell me more about yourself. What brings you to this…to Skyrim?” 

“Madam Ambassador,” Malborn came up behind the woman, “I’m so sorry to inter- “ 

Rolling her eyes with a deep sigh, she turned to her servant. “What is it, Malborn?” 

“It’s just that we’ve run out of the Alto wine. Do I have permission to uncork the Arenthia red…?” 

Meliandra took advantage of the interchange between the two and slipped past the ambassador, making sure to remember to thank the Bosmer later for springing her from this uncomfortable spot she had landed herself in. She saw Maven Black-Briar speaking with Erikur, a light in the former’s eye that she knew from experience meant they were deep in discussions that could be financially beneficial to her, if not the both of them. She smiled to herself and made her way to the Bosmer servant who held a tray of drinks and hors d’oeuvres, intent on a drink to settle her nerves. 

That’s when she saw him. 

He was conversing with one of the guests in what appeared to be an in-depth discussion off in the corner, just out of the line of sight from the other guests. She did not recognize who he was speaking to, but even after all the intervening years since she had last seen him, she still recognized her former captor, Rumair. Suddenly, she was even more grateful for her now-emerald eyes. But she still wanted to put plenty of distance between them. 

She quickly hurried to the bar where Malborn had returned after his interaction with the Ambassador. “What can I get for you?” he asked. 

“I’d like a drink; do you have any Blood-wine?” 

The Bosmer gave a slight nod in recognition of the agreed-upon passphrase, responding, “Of course, let me see if we have another bottle of that.” Lowering his voice, he continued, “I’ll be waiting by the door for everyone to be distracted.” He nodded his head toward a Redguard sitting just feet away as he pushed a filled glass in her direction. “A drink while you wait?” he said in a loud voice.   
Nodding her understanding, she took the drink and slowly walked toward the drunk merchant. “What does a fellow need to do to get a drink around here?” she heard him grumble. 

“You look thirsty,” Meliandra commented as she stood next to the man. 

“You are very perceptive!”

She handed him her drink. “Here, you can have mine; not my kind of drink.” 

“Ah!” he responded, his eyes lighting up. “The one generous soul amongst a gathering of pinch-pennies and lick spittles!” He took a drink then continued. “If there is anything I can ever do for you, do not hesitate to call upon me.” 

She nodded. “what brings you to this party?” 

He snorted. “You must be new around here. Bad manners to ask a direct question at one of Elenwen’s little soirees.” He took another thirsty gulp. “But I have nothing to hide. I’m in from the south, on business. And if you want to do business in Tamriel, well- “ he hiccupped “-you’d better get used to cozying up to the Thalmor. Like it or not.” He took another drink. 

“You know,” she said sweetly, “there is actually something you could do to help me.” 

“Wonderful!” he said exuberantly. “I can begin to repay your generosity immediately. Say on, friend.” 

“I need you to cause a scene.” She shrugged. “Get everyone’s attention for a few minutes.” 

He laughed. “Is that all?” He laughed again. “My friend, you’ve come to the right person. You could say that causing a scene is somewhat of a specialty of mine.” He stood up and straightened his tunic. “Stand back and behold my handiwork.” He began to walk towards the group. 

Smiling, Meliandra did stand back and watch him, long enough to mask her slipping into the back and disappearing from the party. 

# 

Elenwen’s Solar had just as many agents of the Thalmor and servants lurking around as did the Embassy. Casting her invisibility spell, she slowly made her way through the main room and towards the back where Malborn said the Thalmor had an office containing records on their investigations as well as their prisoners, past and present, as well as information on persons of interest to the Aldmeri Dominion. She heard heated voices coming from one of the rooms in the back and slowly began to creep forward, listening intently. 

“But I need that money! I earned it. I have my own expenses you know…” The man’s voice was shaky, and she could sense the false bravado in it. 

“Silence!” came the authoritative voice. “do not presume, Gissur. You are most useful, but do not presume. We have other informants who are less…offensive.” 

“But no one else has brought you such valuable information, have they?” His voice was rushed. “Etienne, he’s talked, hasn’t he? He knows where that old man is you’re looking for, he told me himself.”   
Meliandra’s eyebrow raised at the familiar name. It tugged at the corner of her memory, yet the reason eluded her. 

“You’ll get the rest of your money when we confirm his story.” After a slight hesitation, he added, “As agreed.”

Gissur’s voice suddenly became excited. “So, he has talked! I knew it!” 

The Thalmor’s voice was flat as he said, “Everyone talks, in the end. Now I have work to do. Leave me to it, if you ever want to see the rest of your payment.” 

There was a slight hesitation before Gissur spoke again, his voice betraying the need for approval and acceptance. “Can I…I could help you. He trusts me…” 

She could hear the exasperation in the Thalmor’s voice. “You’d like to come downstairs with me, is that it, Gissur? Shall we loose his bonds and put you in a cell together? You can ask him anything you like and see how he answers.” 

“No,” Gissur stuttered, “no. I’ll wait…I’ll wait outside.” 

“That would probably be best. Now get out!” 

Meliandra watched as the human left the room, dejected, then watched as the Thalmor agent exited the room, the sound of a key in a keylock adding to the obstacles she had to overcome. Shaking her head, she made her way into the corner room Malborn had indicated there was a large number of investigation reports. Scanning the bookshelves and only seeing tomes on history, she turned her attention to the desk and its drawers. Upon finding a key, she glanced at the chest behind her and tried the key. The sound of the locking mechanism releasing made her smile and she began rifling around the contents. 

She found three official dossiers and another key. Quickly thumbing through the dossiers, she realized one was on Delphine, the other on Ulfric while a third was on the dragons. Turning the key over and over in her hand, she thought about visiting this prisoner, this Etienne, that the Thalmor were interrogating. Once more she felt like she should recognize the name and without hesitation, she made her way into the adjacent room and down the stairs, knowing the key in her would unlock the doors there. 

#

“Stop. Please.” 

The voice was weak and tired; Meliandra knew she recognized the voice but still couldn’t place where she knew it from. 

“…Don’t you think I’d have told you already?” 

She heard a loud smack, flesh on flesh with such force even she cringed. ‘Thalmor bastards,’ she thought to herself as she made her way to an area she could watch unseen. 

“Silence,” came the voce of the Thalmor soldier. “You know the rules. Do not speak unless spoken to. Master Rulindil will ask the questions.” 

The Thalmor interrogator in hooded robes sat outside the holding cell, a chest like the one in the room upstairs sat next to the desk the Mer sat at. From Meliandra’s vantage point, she saw him pick up a quill and dip it into the inkwell before him. “Let’s begin again.” 

“No…for pity’s sake…I’ve told you everything.”

This time she heard the thud of a punch, her stomach clenched as she finally caught sight of the prisoner. She recognized him as one of the Guild, one of Brynjolf’s men she saw rarely.   
“You know the rules.” 

Her view was blocked again, though the sounds of his torture pounded in her ears. She looked around forming a plan as she listened to the thief begging for breath. 

“…why wouldn’t I tell you again? I don’t even know anything…” He wheezed for a moment before continuing, “There’s an old man. He lives in Riften. He could be this Esbern you’re looking for, but I don’t know. He’s old and seemed kind of crazy. That’s all I know.” 

“And his name is…?” 

“I don’t know his name. Like I’ve told you already a hundred – GAAAAAAH!” 

The punch echoed in the cold rooms; she saw blood splatter the stone wall the thief was shackled to; she felt her anger rising. 

“You know the rules,” Rulindil stated evenly, coldly as Meliandra looked around the crate she was hiding behind. “Just answer the questions.” Returning his gaze to the paper before him, rolled out nice and neat, he continued, “And where can we find this nameless old man?”

Etienne’s voice cracked, the strain of the repeated torture, the droning on of the same questions over and over, it was all becoming too much for him; he was breaking in more than just one way. “Like I said, I don’t know! I’ve seen him down in the Ratway. Maybe he lives down there, but I don’t know for sure.”

Rulindil sighed as he set his quill down next to the inkwell. Looking into the cell as he stood, the Altmer stated, “That will be all for now. I must say I continue to be disappointed in your lack of cooperation. I hope next time you will do better.” 

“What else do you want from me?” he cried out. “I’ve already told you everything. Listen, if you let me go I can take you to Riften, show you where – GAAAAHHH!” 

“Silence, prisoner!” the soldier snapped as he punched Etienne, the force of it knocking the man unconscious. 

Shrugging, Rulindil made his way to the stairs leading back to his office, unaware of the trained assassin lurking behind him, and the soldier having begun patrolling in the opposite direction. Her dagger in hand, she quickly kicked the back of the Thalmor’s knee, buckling him, grabbed his forehead, bringing it back toward her and drew her blade across his neck, blood spraying the wall before him. Turning quickly, she cast her spectral arrow spell hitting the soldier directly through the neck, dropping the Mer in a pool of blood. 

Moving quickly, she hurried to the chest and finding it open, rifled through its contents. Finding another dossier, she opened its cover and thumbed through its pages. It was about a Blades member named Esbern. Quickly tucking it with the other dossiers into the pack she had Malborn sneak in with her gear, she looked at the Thieves Guild member. He had said too much, he was going to bring the Thalmor into the Ratway. She needed to get him out of here. 

“Wake up!” she yelled at him as she dumped water over his bruised and swollen face. 

“I told you,” he sputtered, consciousness returning to him fuzzily. “I don’t know anything else about it.” 

“Fucking shit, I’m not here to torture you.” 

He looked up at her through swollen eyes. “What? Who… what do you want then?” 

Shaking her head, she picked the locks that shackled his hands to the wall. “No time to explain. Let’s get out of here.” 

Rubbing his wrists, the thief nodded his head. “Yeah, sure, okay.” Waving her to follow him, he continued, “come on, this way. I’ve seen the guards use it to get rid of bodies. It must lead somewhere.” 

“You must know something they really want to know.” 

“Yeah, something like that.” 

“You willing to tell your Guild Master about it?” 

He looked at her carefully. “Guild Master?” He half-laughed. “Thought I recognized your voice, Meliandra. Gone to see the Face Sculptor, did ya?”

“Etienne!” she interrupted. 

“They’re after some old guy named Esbern. Something to do with dragons. I gathered it from listening to them talk when they thought I was out. I’ve seen a guy in Riften who they seem to think is him.” He shrugged apologetically. “Not much to go on. I don’t even know where he lives, or his name. But they seemed pretty excited about it. That’s it.” 

“Alright, where’s that exit the guards use for the bodies?” 

Before he could answer, a voice called out, “Surrender immediately or you both die.” 

“Get out of here now, Etienne,” she hissed as she heard Malborn’s resigned, “Never mind, I’m dead already - “ 

The sound of skin against skin and someone being knocked off balance told Meliandra the wood elf had been struck. The Thalmor’s “Silence, traitor!” confirmed her suspicions.   
“Move slowly,” came the voice of the second guard. 

Meliandra was not about to lose the life of someone so willing to risk it for the greater good. Running up the stack of crates, she leaped onto the second floor, her dagger in hand, driving it into the base of the Mer’s neck, severing the spinal cord. As she stood straight, she stared at the distracted Thalmor. Malborn scurried quickly away to safety. 

Meliandra smiled as the Altmer charged at her. Using her size to her advantage, she dodged the attack and quickly had her larger opponent on the floor from a foot well placed in their path at the appropriate time. Taking a sword from the wall, she drove the weapon into the elf’s chest, her eyes flashing a smile, her true color of amber slowly revealing itself as the potion she had imbibed began to wear off.


	7. After the Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who did this?”
> 
> “Eyes…Those eyes… Those laughing amber eyes…”
> 
> Suddenly, Rumair stood behind Elenwen. His eyes betrayed the barely restrained agitation at the guard’s words. “What did you say about their eyes?”
> 
> Elenwen’s back straightened as she looked at her Altmer companion, suddenly regretting her allowance of the man to accompany her in the investigation of what had occurred there tonight, more so, she was afraid of what his reaction would be if it was Ayrena that had infiltrated the Embassy and had caused the havoc that had ensued.

“I’ll kill that cursed wood elf myself!”

Elenwen’s voice echoed off the cold walls, blood spray splattered across crates, while blood gathered and pooled beneath her guards as well as beneath her chief interrogator, Rulindil. Her eyes scanned the room, mentally taking note of everything that was amiss, frowning deeply. Her brows furrowed; she turned her attention to the one guard who had survived the ambush but was not going to live much longer due to the severity of their wounds, yet this did not matter to the ambassador. She wanted answers. 

“Who did this?” 

“Eyes…Those eyes… Those laughing amber eyes…” 

Suddenly, Rumair stood behind Elenwen. His eyes betrayed the barely restrained agitation at the guard’s words. “What did you say about their eyes?” 

Elenwen’s back straightened as she looked at her Altmer companion, suddenly regretting her allowance of the man to accompany her in the investigation of what had occurred there tonight, more so, she was afraid of what his reaction would be if it was Ayrena that had infiltrated the Embassy and had caused the havoc that had ensued. 

“Surely you cannot think that the Breton half-breed is responsible for this?” 

“’Amber eyes’, isn’t that what your guard said?” he snapped. 

“Every one of my guards were given a description of Ayrena. There is no way she could have gotten onto the premises without discovery.” 

“I wouldn’t put it past her. She was born with an innate ability to use magic, she has confirmed dealings with thieves and assassins which, as you know, makes dealings with those involved in the criminal underworld all the more easier.” He paused a moment. “Didn’t I see that drunkard carrying on with a young woman right before all that commotion began?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted haughtily. “There’s no way that drunken fool of a Redguard Razelan was complicit in this. He’s too stupid.” 

“Who was he talking to before the commotion?” 

“A guest, I don’t recall her name.” 

“Who’d she come with?” he demanded, his impatience causing his voice to rise. 

“She came alone, I greeted her when she came in.” 

“And you failed to get her name?” 

“I was in the process of doing so but was interrupted by Malborn asking me about wines…” her voice trailed off. 

“How convenient. You let her slip away once more, and this time she was in your own home, as temporary as it will be for I intend to make sure you get sent back home, far from this botched Skyrim assignment.” 

# 

The sound of steel boots clinking along the cold floors of Castle Dour was the only thing one could hear outside the war room inside Castle Dour. The hour was late, but Tullius remained seated at a round table with a goblet of wine resting in his hand, his index finger arched above, tracing the rim lazily back and forth, a meat and cheese-laden plate sat before him, untouched. He looked pensively at the Legate who stood above the map of Skyrim, moving the flags that marked Legion troops to correspond with the day’s advances and losses. 

“And what of these reports that he’s diverted most of his resources in an effort to locate his lover?” 

Giving a glance, she answered, “I can’t say one way or another about diverting resources. My spies have only reported an increase in Stormcloak activities, which reports have substantiated. Our men also report that there are more sightings of flyers with her description that offer a substantial amount of gold for information leading up to her capture.” She paused before continuing. “His attention does seem to have shifted to locating Meliandra at all costs.” 

Taking a sip, he nodded briefly. “And the rumors that she is with child?” 

Rikke shrugged. “I believe those rumors to be true and by my estimations, she should have given birth by now.” 

He frowned. “Great, that’s exactly what we need, Ulfric the Younger running around Skyrim and all of Tamriel.” He took another swallow. “and Meliandra being the mother does little to ease my mind.” Shaking his head, he stood up and walked to a window overlooking the sea below. “Regardless of Ulfric’s feelings for her, he is going to want his heir, am I right?” 

Unsure of which direction the general was headed down, she nodded in agreement. “Family is the foremost important thing to a Nord right after honor. Ulfric would rather die than abandon his blood.” 

“We need to find the child.” 

“Sir?” A quizzical look spread across her face. 

“Find the child and bring it here. Ulfric won’t be far behind. If he’ll do anything for his child, we’ll force him to surrender.” 

“And if Meliandra comes searching for her child?” 

“Then we deliver Ayrena to the Thalmor as they want.” 

“You’re gambling a lot on a risky move.” 

“And what ideas do you have, Legate, that are worth putting on the table?” 

Frowning, she changed the subject. “Speaking of babies, how is the Jarl Elisif and her pregnancy?” 

Tullius sneered as he took a drink. Looking at her with hard, cold eyes, he answered, “Not that I care about her bastard child, they’re fine. She’s getting as fat as a horker, eating nearly everything in sight. She takes the whole bed, tossing and turning, complaining she cannot find a comfortable position. But she’s pregnant, as wanted.” 

“A bastard? She’s not carrying your child?” 

He shook his head. “Her housecarl has done the job for me.” He took another drink. 

“They won’t accept a child from Firebrand. It has to be you.” 

“According to Elisif, it is. Why should I challenge that if it solves my problem with the Dominion?” 

“Elenwen will discover the truth, you know this.” 

He looked at her coldly. “Only if someone tells her. And if they do, they’ll discover themselves under the Dominion’s scrutiny just as much as I have been.” 

# 

As she made her way to Riverwood, her thoughts dwelt upon what she had read that morning before she had begun the final leg of her trek back to Delphine. She knew that she now had something big on her former lover and she knew he’d not want his men, especially Galmar, to know that he was a Thalmor asset. It was the “uncooperative” attached to that information that had given her pause. A young Elenwen had manipulated the young prisoner Ulfric until he broke. As a young child, she had seen the techniques the Thalmor used on their prisoners and knew which ones they reserved for favored ones, those who held more precious information only than others, prisoners like a jarl’s son. 

She wondered if Ulfric had ever discovered the truth, that he had not betrayed the Empire while held captive, that the information he had given was old and outdated. What bothered her, though, was that he had cooperated with the Thalmor after the War until the ‘Markarth Incident’ when he had become uncooperative. 

She recalled the day she first encountered the Stormcloak jarl on the way to Helgen, she had been caught up in the Imperial ambush at Darkwater Crossing and thrown in the back of a transport wagon with the jarl and one of his men, Ralof, as well as some horse thief. She had noticed Elenwen arguing with Tullius as the wagons entered Helgen. Her Elven blood had given her a heightened sense of hearing and had overheard the Altmer’s words, demanding the rebel prisoners be turned over to her. She began to question if that was a ploy to retrieve Ulfric and prevent his execution. 

Sighing, she stepped into the warmth of the Sleeping Giant Inn. Orgnar stood in his usual spot behind the bar, a bored look on his face as he turned to look at the entrance, and, upon seeing the Breton, turned back to the book he had been reading. Delphine looked up from her sweeping and seeing the Dragonborn, put the broom aside and motioned for her to follow. Once Meliandra had shut the door, Delphine opened the false panel in the back of her wardrobe and descended the stairs, saying, “You made it out alive. Your gears safe down here like I said it would be. Did you learn anything useful?” 

“A few things, actually, but the Thalmor know nothing about the dragons.” 

Delphine stared at her. “Really?” she asked with doubt in her voice. “That seems hard to believe. You’re sure about that?” 

Meliandra’s eyes blazed hotly with indignation. “Why’d you send me if you weren’t going to believe me?” 

She nodded her head. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry. I just… I was sure it must have been them. If not the Thalmor, who? Or…what?” 

Meliandra opened her bag, pulled out a dossier, and placed it on the table. “They’re looking for a man named Esbern.” 

Delphine’s eyes grew large as she exclaimed, “Esbern? He’s alive?” She grabbed the dossier and began flipping through the pages. “I thought the Thalmor must have got him years ago. That crazy old man…” She trailed off as she looked through the pages. 

The Breton had read it the night before, having camped west of Whiterun not far from the Western Watchtower and had learned the man was a loremaster, and supposedly had a part in some damaging operations against the Thalmor. 

“Figures the Thalmor would be on his trail,” she said as she shut the book, “though if they were trying to find out what’s going on with the dragons.” 

“What would the Thalmor want with Esbern?” 

Delphine cocked her eyebrow. “You mean, aside from killing every Blade they can get their hands on?” She began to pace the room as she explained, “Esbern was one of the Blades archivists, back before the Thalmor smashed us during the Great War.” Her hands became animated as she spoke. “He knew everything about the ancient dragonlore of the Blades. Obsessed with it, really. Nobody paid much attention back then. I guess he wasn’t as crazy as we all thought.” 

“Well, the Thalmor think the Blades know about the dragons…” 

Delphine laughed. “Ironic, isn’t it? The old enemies assume that every calamity must be a plot by the other side….” She shook her head. “Even so, we’ve got to find Esbern before they do. He’ll knowhow to stop the dragons if anybody does.” She stopped pacing and looked at Meliandra. “Do they know where he is?” 

The Breton nodded. “They seem to think he’s hiding out in Riften.” 

“Riften, eh?” She tapped her finger on the table. “Probably down in then Ratway, then. It’s where I’d go.” She looked at her sternly. “You’d better get to Riften and talk to Brynjolf. He’s…well-connected. A good starting point, at least.” 

Meliandra reached into her bag once more and pulled out the dossier on Delphine. “They know you’re in Skyrim. Pretty impressive.” She handed it to the woman. “Hopefully, this hinders their efforts.” 

Delphine took it and skimmed it, frowning. “They’re thorough, I’ll give them that much.” A smile appeared. “That assassination team was pitiful, ill-prepared, and wet behind the ears.” She closed the book and looked at her companion. “When you find Esbern…if you think I’m paranoid…you may have some trouble getting him to trust you. Just ask him where he was on the 30th of Frostfall. He’ll know what it means.” 

Sighing, she turned and headed back up the stairs, the weight of another journey to Riften heavy upon her soul. 

#


	8. Sacrifices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I…I…” she stammered, looking at the group of people before her. “I can’t go into detail.”   
> He laughed a mirthless laugh. “Of course.”   
> “There’s no time!”   
> “Then you leave me no choice, Meli.” He approached her, a sad but determined look in his eyes. “You are no longer welcome here, Meliandra Valeria, all privileges of being a member of the Thieves Guild are revoked.”   
> “I am the Guild Master.”   
> “not any longer.”

The sun had barely begun to rise, bright yellows and oranges chasing the darkness away, the rays glinting off the lake; Meliandra knew that most of the people of Riften would still be sleeping or just waking, save for the fishers. She should be able to slip through town and down into the Ratway unnoticed; hopefully leaving would not prove to be difficult. With no hesitation, she descended the stairs to the lower level of the city, keeping out of sight from those above. The lookouts the Guild employed were fast asleep, the stench of old mead and piss heavy in the air; she slipped past them, her steps silent as she moved. Soon she found herself at the door leading to the Flagon; she hesitated as her hand rested on the handle of the door, her heart pounding loudly in her ears.   
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door. 

Brynjolf stood in the entranceway, arms crossed, waiting. “What brings you here, lass?” 

Beyond them, she saw an urchin of a child, sitting at a table, hungrily eating a bowl of something. She looked at him. “Using orphans as informants?” 

“Don’t avoid the question, Meli. Why are you here?” 

“Do I need a reason, Bryn?” 

He nodded. “You’re a wanted woman. The Imperials. The Stormcloaks. Rumor is even the Thalmor are searching for you. So, why are you here?” 

“I can’t tell you.” 

“Bullshit, Meli!” he snapped. “If there is anyone in this world you can trust, it’s me, you know this.” 

She closed her eyes briefly, then looked back at him. “I need to find someone; he might be holed up in the Ratway!” 

He nodded. “I might know who you’re talking about and I might be able to help you, but only if you tell me what’s going on.” 

She stared at him; her eyes hard as she weighed her options. If she told him the truth, that she was the Dragonborn and she needed to find this old man to learn how to stop these dragon attacks, she knew he’d help. If he believed her, which she doubted he would. “I’ll explain along the way, deal?” 

After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded, and they began to walk towards the back of the Flagon. “So, talk to me.”

“Not here, lets head down to the Vaults first.” 

He frowned at her as he nodded his acknowledgment, allowing her to take the lead and him falling in step behind her. There were no words spoken between the former lovers, the silence between them thick and stifling. He watched her before him, torn between the love he felt for her and the hurt and anger they had caused each other. He wanted to pin her against the wall and kiss her as he once did while at the same time he wanted to throw her out of the Flagon, banishing her from the Guild, banishing her from him, something that would break him worse than anything that had happened between them. His heart was heavy walking through the door to the Vaults. 

“Alright, lass,” he said as he shut the door behind them, “time to talk.” 

As she began to speak, she heard “There’s the Blades agent! Kill her!” 

Reacting on impulse, she spun around, casting a paralyze spell on a shocked Brynjolf. “I’m sorry, Bryn, but I won’t risk your life,” she said before rushing off, a pair of conjured swords in her hands. 

# 

“Go away!” the man shouted. “Esbern,” she said, her breath rushed. She didn’t know how many Thalmor agents were in these tunnels if there were any more, they were bound to find the bodies of their comrades. She didn’t want to be out in the open if they came searching. “Open the door. I’m a friend.” 

The voice beyond the door sounded, startled. “What?! No, that’s not me. I’m not Esbern. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“The Thalmor have found you. You need to get out of here.” 

“Oh, how reassuring!” he called out. Most likely you’re with the Thalmor and this is just a trick to open the door!” 

She ran her hand through her hair. “It’s okay, Esbern. Delphine sent me.” 

“Delphine?” Recognition tinged his voice. How do you…” His voice trailed off momentarily. “So, you’ve finally found her, and she led you to me. And here I am,   
caught like a rat in a trap.” 

“Delphine needs your help to stop the dragons.” Suddenly she remembered Delphine’s warning about Esbern’s paranoia. “Delphine said to remember the 30th of Frostfall.”

“Ah,” he said, belief now coloring his tone. 

“Indeed, indeed. I do remember.” A slight pause followed. “Delphine is really alive, then? You’d better come in then and tell me how you found me and what you want.” 

She heard the sound of locks disengaging and chains clanging against the door. Every so often, she heard, “This’ll just take a moment…This one always sticks…there we go… Only a couple more… There we are!...” The door creaked open. “Come in, come in!” He waved her in, surreptitiously checking outside his door before shutting it. “Make yourself at home…” He waved to a chair at the table. 

She sat down, relieved to be out of sight finally. She looked at the older man; he had more years on him than he had lived, but decades on the run took its toll on a person. 

“That’s better. Now we can talk.” He clasped his hands before him. “So, Delphine keeps up the fight, after all these years. I thought she’d have realized it’s hopeless by now. I tried to tell her, years ago…” 

“Esbern, the Thalmor have found you. We have to get out of here.” He waved his hand. “Yes, yes, so you said. But so, what? The end is upon us. I may as well die here as anywhere else.” He sighed. “I’m tired of running.” 

She shook her head, not understanding. “What do you mean, ‘the end is upon us’?” 

“Haven’t you figured it out, yet? What more needs to happen before you all wake-up and see what’s going on?” At her bewildered look, he continued, “Alduin has returned, just like the prophecy said!” In a rush, he explained, “The Dragon from the dawn of time, who devours the souls of the dead! No one can escape his hunger, here or in the afterlife! Alduin will devour all things and the world will end. Nothing can stop him.” He paused as a sense of sadness overcame him. “I tried to tell them. They wouldn’t listen. Fools. It’s all come true…all I could do was watch our doom approach…” 

“You’re talking about the literal end of the world?” 

“Oh, yes. It’s all been foretold. The end has begun. Alduin has returned.” 

“Alduin…the dragon who’s raising the others?” 

“Yes! Yes! You see, you know but you refuse to understand! The end has begun. Only a Dragonborn can stop him. But no Dragonborn has been known for centuries. It seems the gods have grown tired of us. They’ve left us to our fate, as the plaything of Alduin the World-Eater.” 

She smiled at him. “It’s not hopeless, Esbern. I’m Dragonborn.” 

His face dropped as he exclaimed, “What? You’re…can it really be true? Dragonborn? Then…then there is hope! The gods have not abandoned us! We must…we must…” He started moving around the room, stuffing various items in a bag. “We must go, quickly now. Take me to Delphine. We have much to discuss. But, give me…just a moment, I know time is of the essence, but mustn’t leave secrets for the Thalmor…there’s one more thing I must bring…where’d I put my annotated Annaud?...Well, I guess that’s good enough…let’s be off…” 

#

“Fucking hell!” 

Brynjolf sat at the table closest to the bar, rubbing his arms vigorously, Dirge, Vekel, and Tonila circling him, concern on their faces. Vekel placed a mug of juice made of oranges before him, saying, “This should help get rid of the weak feeling.” 

Nodding his appreciation, he picked up the mug as he said, “No matter how many times I’ve been paralyzed, I will never get used to the aftereffects.” 

“The fuck happened in there?” Tonila demanded. 

“Meliandra,” he answered. At their bemused looks, he continued, “She’s gone rogue.” At their stunned looks, he explained what had happened. “And that’s when Vekel found me.” 

Tonila shook her head as she looked at Dirge. “You need to find her and bring her here back before- “ 

“Before what, Tonila?” Meliandra’s voice came. They turned to see the Guild Master standing in the archway with an older gentleman standing next to her. “Well, Tonila? Before what?” 

“Before you bring more danger to us!” Brynjolf snapped. He stood up angrily, slamming his fists onto the bar and turning to her his eyes blazing hotly with the rage that had been slowly building within him. 

“Bryn- “ 

“Don’t!” 

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, emotions shared between them tumultuously churning in their eyes, past slights rising above the graves they had been buried in long ago, the pain of betrayal still resonating deep within the both of them. 

“I can explain,” she said. 

“Like you were going to before you attacked me?” 

“If I hadn’t you would have died!” 

“Because of something you’re involved in.” He shook his head. “Please do explain. Why are there Thalmor agents crawling around down here? Something to do with the ambush on the embassy up north, I’m assuming. How does Ulfric figure into all of this? You got his men making random appearances here, looking for you and your child.” 

“I…I…” she stammered, looking at the group of people before her. “I can’t go into detail.” 

He laughed a mirthless laugh. “Of course.” 

“There’s no time!” 

“Then you leave me no choice, Meli.” He approached her, a sad but determined look in his eyes. “You are no longer welcome here, Meliandra Valeria, all privileges of being a member of the Thieves Guild are revoked.” 

“I am the Guild Master.” 

“not any longer.” 

They stared at one another; eyes hard.

“Fine,” she said. “Have it your way.” She walked up to her former lover, the other members of the Guild made to protect Brynjolf, but he waved them away, meeting Meliandra’s eyes the entire time. 

“I entrust the safety of Vladimir to you and hold you responsible for his well-being.” 

He stared at her. “Is all of this worth losing your son?” 

She barely spared him a glance as she answered, “You’re the best chance he has at a life.” And with that, she motioned for her companion to follow, and left the Guild behind.


	9. On Alduin's Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding a patch of ground devoid of snow, she set about setting up a small spit to roast the rabbit. 
> 
> Her eleven ears picked up the sound of flapping wings before she felt the wind pick up around her. Her hand went to her sword as she spun around and looked up, her eyes narrowing as she beheld the mighty dragon descending in front of her. 
> 
> "Drem Val Lok," rumbled the voice of the dragon. "I am Paarthurnax."
> 
> 'Oh, Delphine's not going to like this, she thought, sheathing her sword.

“Isn’t it amazing?"

“I just want to know how to defeat Alduin.” Meliandra flexed her hand open and closed, the cut she had made to open the Blood Seal healed with her magic, but the pain beneath the skin screamed. She looked down the length of panels, the glow from Esbern’s torch illuminating the ancient engravings carved into stone. 

“Ah. Of course,” the older man said. “Not everyone has an appreciation for the artistic wonders of the world. Let me see if I can find the right panel… Yes, yes. Let’s see what we have… Look, this panel goes back to the beginning of time, when Alduin and the Dragon Cult ruled over Skyrim. Here,” he tapped the panel, “the humans rebel against their dragon overlords. – the legendary Dragon War. Alduin’s defeat is the centerpiece of the Wall. You see,” he pointed to part of the panel, “here he is falling from the sky. The Nord Tongues – Masters of the Voice – are arrayed against him. “ 

Delphine spoke up. “So, does it show how they defeated him? Isn’t that why we’re here?” 

The man chuckled, “Patience, my dear. The Akavari were not a straightforward people. Everything is couched in allegory and mythic symbolism.” He was silent again as his aged eyes looked meticulously before him, bringing his torch closer. “yes, yes. This here, coming from the mouths of the Nord heroes – this is the Akavari symbol for ‘Shout’. But…there’s no way to know what Shout is meant.” 

Delphine shook her head in disbelief. “You mean they used a Shout to defeat Alduin? You’re sure?”

“Hmmm? Oh, yes.” He nodded. “Presumably, something rather specific to dragons, or even Alduin himself. Remember, this is where they recorded all they knew of Alduin and his return.

“So, we’re looking for a Shout, then.” Delphine shook her head. “Damn it.” She turned her attention to Meliandra. “Have you heard of such a thing? A Shout that can knock a dragon out of the sky?”

She shook her head. “No, I’ve never heard of anything like that.” She shrugged. “The Greybeards might know.” 

“You’re probably right. I was hoping to avoid having to involve them in this, but it seems we have no choice.” 

Meliandra glared at the woman, her tone of voice aggravating her. “What do you have against the Greybeards?” 

“If they had their way, you’d do nothing but sit up on their mountain with them and talk to the sky, or whatever it is they do.” She shook her head then met the Dragonborn’s eyes. “The Greybeards are so afraid of power that they won’t use it. Think about it. Have they tried to stop the civil war, or done anything about Alduin? No, they haven’t. And they’re afraid of you, of your power. Trust me, there’s no need to be afraid. Think of Tiber Septim. Do you think he’d have founded the Empire if he’d listened to the Greybeards?”

“The Greybeards may have a point,” she countered. “Power is dangerous.” 

“Only if you don’t know how to use it. All the great heroes have had to learn to use their power. And those that shrank from their destiny…well, you’ve never heard of them, have you? And there are the villains – those that misused their power. There’s always a choice, and there’s always a risk. But if you live in fear of what might go wrong, you’ll end up doing nothing. Like the Greybeards. Upon their mountain.” 

Absentmindedly nodding, Meliandra reached down to pick up the knapsack by her feet. “I’d better go see what Arngeir knows about this Shout.”  
Delphine blew air through her nose, her voice taking an edge of sarcasm as she responded, “Right. Good thing they’ve already let you into their little cult. Not likely they’d help Esbern or me if we came calling. We’ll look around Sky haven Temple and see what else the old Blades might have left for us. It’s a better hideout than I could have hoped for.” 

They bid each other goodbye and Meliandra made her way back out the ancient temple, Delphine’s words ringing in her ears. She herself had found Arngeir immovable in his thoughts, refusing to see anything other than his own beliefs, his truths were the only truths. She had begun to understand why Ulfric abandoned his training with the Greybeards, why he had deviated from their teachings.  
Sighing deeply, she thought to herself that this task before her was going to prove to be one of her most trying. 

# 

It was quiet as she walked through High Hrothgar, the only sound being that of her footfalls softly echoing in the large, open room. Keeping in mind Master Arngeir’s strict adherence to his daily routines, she made her way to the Greybeard’s living chambers, where she knew she’d find the monk in quiet mindfulness, some light meditation as he ate a small mid-day meal. 

And that’s exactly where she found him. 

“Sky guard you,” he greeted her. 

“I need to learn the Shout used to defeat Alduin.” 

She said it so straight to the point and without any form of preamble that Arngeir stared at her briefly with disbelief coming over his face. His voice became strained with the displeasure he had felt rise within him like bile forcing its way up from the intestines. “Where did you hear of that? Who have you been talking to?” 

“It was recorded on Alduin’s Wall.” 

“The Blades! Of course.” He practically spit the words out. “They specialize in meddling in matters they barely understand. Their reckless arrogance knows no bounds. They have always sought to turn the Dragonborn from the path of wisdom. Have you learned nothing from us? Would you simply e a tool in the hands of the Blades, to be used for their own purposes?”

“The Blades are helping me,” she spat. “I’m not their puppet.” 

“No, no, of course not. Forgive me, Dragonborn.” He run his hand over his beard. “I have been intemperate with you. But heed my warning – the Blades may say they serve the Dragonborn, but they do not. They never have.”

“So,” she stated flatly, “can you teach me this Shout?”

He frowned. “No. I cannot teach it to you because I* do not know it. It is called ‘Dragonrend’, but its Words of Power are unknown to us. We do not regret this loss. Dragonrend holds no place within the Way of the Voice.” 

“What’s so bad about Dragonrend?” 

“It was created by those who had lived under the unimaginable cruelty of Alduin’s Dragon Cult,” he explained. Their whole lives were consumed with hatred for dragons, and they poured all their anger and hatred into this Shout.” He paused for a moment, searching for the right words before continuing, “When you learn a Shout, you take it into your very being. In a sense, you become the Shout. In order to learn and use this Shout, you will be taking this evil into yourself.” 

She looked at him confused. “If the Shout is lost, how can I defeat Alduin?” 

Taking a deep breath, Arngeir answered, “Only Paarthurnax, the master of our order, can answer that question, if he so chooses.”

Even more confused, she asked, “Who is Paarthurnax?” 

“He is our leader. He surpasses us all in his mastery of the Way of the Voice.” 

“Then I need to speak to Paarthurnax.” 

“You aren’t ready,” he snapped. “You’re still not ready.” He sighed. “But thanks to the Blades, you now have question that only Paarthurnax can answer.” 

“Why haven’t I met Paarthurnax yet?” 

“He lives in seclusion on the very peak of the mountain. He speaks to us only rarely, and never to outsiders. Being allowed to see him is a great privilege.” 

“So, how do I get to the top of the mountain to see him?” 

“Only those whose Voice is strong can find the path. Come,” he said as he stood. “We will teach you a Shout to open the way to Paarthurnax.” 

# 

She saw the crest of the top of the mountain and sighed a deep breath of relief. Her legs were tired, and she had worked up quite an appetite. The rabbit she had speared with her bow and arrow moments before would make a good meal if she could build a fire to roast it over. Hopefully this Paarthurnax would be hospitable and welcoming, he would surely desire to meet the Dragonborn, would he not? She had convinced herself over and over that the leader of the Greybeards would want to meet her. 

In the distance she saw a Word Wall and a bemused look crossed her face. She determined this Paarthurnax who had made his way up her must truly have a mastery of the Voice for even with her being Dragonborn, she had struggled up this path. Finding a patch of ground devoid of snow, she set about setting up a small spit to roast the rabbit. 

Her elven ears picked up the sound of flapping wings before she felt the wind pick up around her. Her hand went to her sword as she spun around and looked up, her eyes narrowing as she beheld the mighty dragon descending in front of her. 

“Drem Val Lok,” rumbled the voice of the dragon. “I am Paarthurnax.” 

“Oh, Delphine’s not going to like this,” she thought, sheathing her sword. 

# 

She sat at a table, reading the book before her, again. ‘A bird cresting the wind is lifted by a gust and downed by a stone…’ She sighed as she looked up from reading and rubbed her eyes. As she looked around the room, giving her eyes a break from focusing on the small writing in the fading daylight hours, she noticed the Altmer in Thalmor robes watching her from afar. He had been there for a while, not even trying to conceal what he was doing. He made her uncomfortable. She turned her attention back to the book before her. ‘The all-sight of the Scrolls makes a turning of the mind such that relative positions are absolute in their primacy…’ She shook her head again. Picking up the books the Orc had given her, she went to the college librarian. “this Ruminations book is incomprehensible.”

The Orc smiled; it was unnerving to see for her. “Aye, that’s the work of Septimus Signus. He’s the world’s master of the nature of the Elder Scrolls, but…well.  
He’s been gone for a long while. Too long.” 

She glanced over her shoulder.; the Thalmor was still watching her. “Where did he go?” 

He shrugged. “Somewhere up north, in the icefields.” He picked up the books she had laid down. “Said he found some old Dwemer artifact, but well, that was years ago.” With a slight groan, he continued as he walked to the bookshelf behind the counter and placed the books back where had gotten them. “Haven’t heard from him since.” 

Nodding, she thanked him. “its getting late,” she said. “I need to stop at the general store down in town before I leave.” 

“A storm is on its way,” the Orc said. “Should probably get a room at the inn and leave in the morning.”

She smiled, the Altmer kept in her line of sight as she responded, “Might be a good idea.” 

She walked past the Thalmor agent, watching him out of the corner of her eye, her distrust showing clearing in her hooded eyes. She had no intentions on staying in Winterhold this night. 

# 

The Altmer approached Urag gro-Shub. “Who was that?” 

The Orc looked at him then back at the book he was reading. “A researcher, looking for information on Elder Scrolls.” 

“Oh, really? From where?” 

Urag turned the page. “I believe she said she came from the Imperial City, I don’t recall. We had quite the riveting conversation before she sat down to look through what we have.” 

An eyebrow rose. “Did she mention why she was looking into the Scrolls?” 

He shook his head. “Maybe she imagines herself to be a Moth Priest.” 

Ancano gave a fake laugh as he eyed the Orc suspiciously. “Where’s her research taking her next?” 

He shrugged. “Don’t know, didn’t say. Only that she needed to restock her supplies before leaving.” He turned another page in his book. 

Ancano stood there for a moment, knowing the man was keeping something from him, then turned on his heel and walked away. The Orc might think him a fool, but Ancano would prove that that Orsimer was far inferior to him. He knew more than he let on, having watched, and listened from the shadows for so long. He glided past the students as they entered and exited the main building and made his way to where his room was housed and made his way inside. 

Ascending the stairs, he thought about what he was going to say before his thoughts drifted to what rewards would be bestowed upon him for his assistance to the cause. 

With a flick of his wrist, his room was illuminated by the magelight spell he cast. He sat at his desk and, retrieving a parchment of paper and his ink and quill,  
he began penning a letter to Elenwen informing her that Ayrena had been seen and was seeking information on the Elder Scrolls. 

# 

She shut the wooden door behind her, then looked at the two objects she held in her travel pack. ‘I hope he’s right,’ she thought to herself, reflecting on what had just transpired below this frozen slab of ice, the words of a possibly deranged and delusional madman echoing in her ears. As she secured the travel pack on her back, she thought to herself, ‘He better be right.’


End file.
